


Kiss My Breath Away

by InsanelyYours96



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Peter has Panic Attacks, Stiles Makes It Better, based off of that scene where Lydia kisses Stiles to stop his panic attack, only Steter, or at least tries to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyYours96/pseuds/InsanelyYours96
Summary: “You’re having a panic attack, Peter,” Stiles says evenly, looking into his eyes as steadily as possible. “Nobody poisoned you. You need to slow down your breathing, all right? Listen to mine, and match it.”





	Kiss My Breath Away

Stiles is used to panic attacks.

It doesn’t make them any less terrifying, but he’s long since learned how to deal with them. How to modulate his breathing, use muscle relaxation techniques, and force his mind away from the fear that's making him panic in the first place. The last isn't always effective, but he's good at distracting himself, always has been, which helps since he's been living with these attacks since he was seven.

The only problem is, Peter  _hasn’t_. Doesn’t even seem to realize that what’s happening to him is a panic attack, which means it’s all the more terrifying.

Because Peter has fangs and claws that come out when he’s scared.

Stiles steps in front of him, blocking his line of sight to the body. It doesn’t do anything for the smell of burning flesh and anguished shrieks, but at least the flame is no longer reflecting in his electric eyes.

“Peter—”

Peter’s gaze snaps to his, focusing only briefly before zoning out again. His breathing is only getting quicker.

Stiles swallows. Moves closer, still, avoiding the claws as he firmly grasps Peter’s wrist, trying to anchor him to the moment.

“Come on,” he says lowly, making his voice as soothing as possible. He tugs, but Peter stays locked in place, looking through him.

Stiles bites his lip to stop from cursing. A flashback is hardly going to help a panic attack.

“Peter, _Peter_ , follow me, I’m going to take you somewhere safe, okay? We’ve got to get away from the fire.”

There’s a whistle through the air and the witch’s shrieking stops abruptly, cut off by Allison’s precise aim. Peter’s eyes flicker to Stiles again, and he seems to have heard at least some of that because he trails along obediently when Stiles tugs again, though his breathing isn’t any better for it.

Stiles maneuvers them through the woods as best he can, making sure they go upwind of the smell so Peter won’t have to bear it.

After a few minutes of trailing along Peter jerks out of his hold and slumps into a tree, eyes wide, their natural blue, even as claws come up to his own throat. He’s gasping for air, now, catching on to the fact that he can’t breathe and only adding to his own anxiety.

It’s a vicious spiral, Stiles knows. He steps closer again, but Peter snarls, brow creasing into it’s _beta_ characteristic before shifting back.

“Stiles?” he sounds confused. Maybe like he’s losing time, forgetting where he is. Not good. “Why—I—can’t breathe. What—you—wolfsbane?”

“You’re having a panic attack, Peter,” Stiles says evenly, looking into his eyes as steadily as possible. “Nobody poisoned you. You need to slow down your breathing, all right? Listen to mine, and match it.”

Peter blinks at him, shakes his head quickly, but seems to be trying. He watches Stiles closely, eyes on the rise and fall of his chest, but his own breaths don’t get any more even.

Nobody was there to talk Stiles through his first panic attack. He knows the feeling of suffocating, knowing that he was going to die, that something was really _wrong_.

“Can’t—” the wolf chokes out.

Stiles shuffles closer, grabs Peter’s wrist again and places his clawed palm over his heart. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, Peter. Try to slow your heartbeat to match mine. You’re going to live through this, _drogi_. I’ve got you. Come on, _breathe_ , Peter. In for one, two, three, four, five, six—”

Stiles stopped. Peter wasn’t matching the pattern, anyway, his eyes turning preternatural blue again, his feature twisting in pain. Claws punctured through his shirt, grazing his skin in hot pinpricks.

“ _Stil_ _—es—_ ”

He was going to pass out, Stiles realized.

He stepped forward, taking Peter’s face between his hands. Stiles looked between his eyes quickly, as if for permission, and pressed forward.

Kissed him.

Slowly, Peter’s limbs stopped trembling. Stiles moved their mouths together, chaste but intent.

After five seconds of stillness, of Peter’s trembles having completely subsided, he pulled back, opening his eyes to meet wide blue.

Peter  _breathed_.

Stiles let his hands slip off Peter’s face, dropping onto his shoulders. He cleared his throat, went to move back but the hand fisting into his shirt wouldn’t let him. “ _Stiles._ ”

“Don’t kill me, just—I read once that holding your breath could stop a panic attack, so when I kissed you... you held your breath.”

Peter blinked at him, slow and still a bit dazed. The hand released his shirt, smoothed it back onto his chest absently. Peter’s nostrils flared and he looked down. Stiles followed his gaze to the spots of red staining through his tee.

“Stupid boy, you’re bleeding.”

Stiles laughed, high and tight, still coming off the adrenaline. “Yeah, well, better than you passing out. The pack probably would’ve left you, and then I’d be stuck hauling your furry ass back to my jeep through two miles of trees.”

Peter’s eyes go electric again, and Stiles flails his hands off his shoulders, taking a step back. “Uh—sorry, yeah, personal space, _rozumiem_.”

Peter frowned at him. “What is that? Welsh?”

“Oh. No, it’s Polish.”

“Earlier you called me… drow-ja-eye?”

Stiles started, the mispronunciation almost funny out of Peter’s normally smooth mouth. “ _Drogi,”_ he corrected.

He vaguely recalled saying that, though really he had just been rambling.

“It means ‘dear’. My mom used to call me that, when she was talking me down from an attack. It must’ve slipped out.”

Peter’s gaze suddenly felt too heavy. Stiles took another few paces back, and turned.

“Come on, zombiewolf,” he called over his shoulder. It should have been long enough for Peter’s limbs to be under his own control again. “I’ll give you a ride.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then the sound of Peter’s footsteps behind him.

“I brought my car, Stiles.”

“And it will be at your building when you wake up. Seriously, Peter, you’re about to crash, and you still have to shower before you go to bed. You can’t drive in this state.”

There’s a moment of silence, but no protest. Peter catches him twenty minutes later when he almost trips, and they carry on.

When they reach the edge of the preserve, Stiles’ jeep and Peter’s car are the only ones there. Stiles feels a tinge of hurt that he’d been left in the woods with a possibly feral Peter, but mostly he’s unsurprised. It’s par for the course, these days.

Peter makes a scoffing sound, then catches something on Stiles’ face that makes him keep his comments to himself. He goes to his own car, but only to grab his cell phone and house keys.

The drive is just as silent as the walk, aside from some 80’s rock drifting quietly from the speakers. Stiles doesn’t ask for directions to Peter’s house, and Peter doesn’t offer them.

They pull up ten minutes later.

When Stiles says he’s helping him in there’s no protest, so Stiles nabs Peter’s keys and unlocks the house. Flicks the light on, glancing around with only minor interest. He knows the general layout, he’s the one that gave Peter Marcy’s real estate number after all, so only the furnishings and some of the wall colors are new.  

“Nice place,” he offers absently, when he notices Peter looking. “See ya next time, creeperwolf.”

Stiles turns to go, but a hand catches his wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, or so hard that he would have much trouble escaping, but inexorably _there_. He turned slowly, aiming narrowed eyes at Peter.

Who looked strangely vulnerable, in his soot and blood-stained clothing.

“Stay. Just until after you’ve showered. I don’t want to leave you smelling like ash.” It looked like it cost Peter a lot to say, as if Stiles could ever fault him for this. He’s pretty sure he’s the closest to pack Peter actually has, even if the man loves to push him away whenever Stiles tries to be his friend.

“Yeah,” he breaths out, touching the man’s hand briefly before it drops away. “Yes, I’ll stay. Go ahead and shower, I’ll sit in the kitchen so the smell doesn’t get anywhere else and go next. Okay?”

There was something defensive and prickly in Peter’s posture, something that tells Stiles he wants to lash out, but surprisingly enough the man doesn’t. His shoulders slump, and even as he looks as though he’s sucked a lemon Peter nods his head. “Thanks.”

Stiles nods back, taking a seat. He waits twenty minutes, dicking around on his phone, before Peter reappears in a pair of sweats and a loose cotton v-neck.

He passes Stiles a towel and stack of clothes silently, stopping him with a hand on the shoulder when Stiles goes towards the washroom. “I left a plastic bag on the floor with my clothes in them, if you’ll put yours in as well and take them when you go. Don’t put on the shirt when you get out of the shower and I’ll patch up those marks for you, too.”

Stiles blinks at him tiredly. There isn’t a drop of adrenaline left in him and he’s crashing just as hard as Peter is, especially after sitting down with nothing to do for so long. Stiles considers protesting the last bit, but it’s been a long night. Either he does it later or Peter does it for him.

He’ll take the path of least resistance for once.

“Sure thing, doctorwolf.”

Peter snorts, rolling his eyes, and lets Stiles pass this time.

The shower is heaven. Heat beats against his tired muscles, relaxing a knot in his shoulders.

Stiles hums, pleased. He washes himself slowly, idly musing that he’ll smell like Peter after this. Not that it’s a hardship, as the products have a nice, spicy odor. He soaps over his wounds gently, hissing at the sting but knowing he needs to clean them.

By the time he’s out and dried off besides his hair, Peter is knocking at the door.

“Let me put on pants first,” Stiles calls out, rolling his eyes.

When he let’s Peter in the wolf looks from his honey eyes to his chest, frowning a bit at the wounds. They aren’t bleeding any more, having stopped at some point on the walk back to their cars and not restarted even with Stiles’ gentle cleaning, but there are still five distinct pinpricks that match Peter’s hand.

Peter is gentle as he cares for Stiles, seemingly too tired to snark like they usually do. Stiles watches curiously as Peter bandages his claw marks with steady hands.

“You’re pretty good at this, for someone with super healing,” he murmurs.

“I had human family too, Stiles.”

After tonight, that’s more than enough for Stiles to drop it.

The silence has settled again by the time Peter’s finished and Stiles has pulled on one of the wolf’s v-necks. Peter stares at him for a moment too long while Stiles pushes up the too-long sleeves self consciously, nostrils flaring.

They head back towards the kitchen by mutual decision, Stiles hauling along their smoke-scented clothes.

“Not how I imagined our first kiss,” Peter says eventually, just as Stiles is about to leave. He looks tired and so very, very resigned.

And he sounds _serious_. Like he had actually thought about kissing Stiles before. Like he hadn’t just been teasing all those times he leered at Stiles over coffee or research, only to pull back a moment later with a sneer.

Stiles blinks at him, trying to process the words and everything else but _that_ they could mean.

He wasn’t coming up with much.

“You’ll give a guy self-confidence issues,” Stiles blurts. He blinks at Peter, who looks as surprised and confused as Stiles feels. “You didn’t kiss back,” he clarifies.

Peter stares at him for a moment longer, then huffs out a laugh.

“I wouldn’t make that mistake again,” he says, in the same light tone Stiles had just used. There’s a dare gleaming in his eyes, and Stiles feels remarkably off kilter.

Okay, yeah. So it was that.

Peter. With _him_.

Huh.

Stiles looks him over. Sees the wariness still there, resignation still lurking behind the dare.

_Don’t play with me_ , Stiles reads in his eyes.

Smiles just a touch, because apparently he’s not the only dubious one here.

“Prove it.”

Peter’s smile is sharp, his eyes soft, his hands gentle but firm.

The second kiss is much better than the first.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know? I was reading something that mentioned Lydia kissing Stiles during his panic attack, and thought, oh yeah, that happened. And then thought: what if that happened to Peter. And then my fingers did this with only 10% of my brain's permission. 
> 
> Seriously, I'm usually a very dialogue-heavy writer so this was just bizarre. I'm feeling weird about it. Like, emotionally exhausted for the characters.
> 
> This isn't edited and I'm sorta sure I change tenses a few times. Also, Stiles' line "I read once that holding your breath could stop a panic attack, so when I kissed you... you held your breath." is taken directly from the episode, and was originally said by Lydia.


End file.
